


Back Where You Started From

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘There are three cubes of sugar in this one’s left shoe,’ Sherlock said, pointing to a small boy in short grey trousers, with bottle-bottom glasses and skinned knees. ‘This one sneaked a pinch of Cook’s cooking sherry after lunch and I believe Mary knows the location of the missing sweet coupons.’</i>
</p>
<p>WWII AU. January, 1944. Sherlock and John go to Sussex for the afternoon. Sherlock’s his usual self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Where You Started From

_January, 1944  
Thursday_

The car Mycroft had sent pulled up on the lane outside Sherlock’s childhood home. Kicking the door open, Sherlock clambered out without a word, reaching back into the car to grab John’s medical bag off the seat. He stood wrapped up in his tweed suit and his scarf and coat, straight-backed and stern-faced.

‘Thank you,’ John said to the driver, who nodded.

‘It’s icy, mind yourself,’ Sherlock barked from outside the car, gloved hands clasped behind his back, John’s bag dangling from his fingers. John put his stick down first, grasping it firmly as he got out of the car. Sherlock slammed the door shut and banged on the roof of the car twice, watching as it drove round to the side of the house where another similar car was parked next to Mummy’s.

‘Ugh,’ Sherlock moaned, his face repulsed. John followed his gaze and snorted a laugh.

‘Mycroft?’

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s like _fungi_ , getting everywhere you don’t want him to be.’

‘Well, that’s certainly the case in our kitchen,’ John teased, smiling. They exchanged a fond look. ‘Come on.’ He tugged Sherlock by the arm. ‘Your mother will be glad to see you both.’

They began the walk down the long, paved drive, moving slowly owing to the double risk of John’s leg and the ice.

‘How many children has your mother taken in again?’

‘Oh, how should I know?’ Sherlock swung John’s medical bag back and forth. ‘They’re high-pitched and sticky and altogether bothersome, they blurred into a mass of annoyance the last time I visited.’

‘It was your caring and gentle nature I truly missed whilst I was in Africa,’ John said with a grin.

‘Do be quiet,’ Sherlock returned, though a smile played around his lips.

The lawns on either side of the path up to the large house were dominated by two enormous vegetable patches, frost clinging to the well turned over earth and the grass growing around the edges. Sherlock rummaged in the pocket of his coat and pulled out his cigarette case, clicking the clasp open with one hand just before they reached the front door.

‘Get me one out, would you?’ he said, holding the case out towards John, who rolled his eyes as he placed one between Sherlock’s lips. 

‘You’re really going to smoke now? It’s freezing.’

‘Just a quick one, before we have to go in.’ Sherlock closed his case again and put it back in his pocket, taking out his lighter and snapping the thumbwheel a few times, puffing out until the cigarette lit. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes and tilting his head back before removing the fag from between his lips. ‘If I want to smoke in there I’ll have to do it with Mycroft.’

‘And we simply can’t have that,’ John said, taking his bag from Sherlock, settling on one of the wooden benches in the small room in front of the door, an open archway looking out onto the grounds.

Sherlock nodded and gestured towards John with his cigarette. ‘Exactly.’

They were quiet whilst Sherlock smoked, John burrowing deeper into his grey overcoat. ‘Would you hurry up with that?’ John snapped at the same moment that the heavy door opened a fraction, revealing three pairs of curious-looking eyes attached to three small heads, one on top of the other.

Glaring at John, Sherlock threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under one smart black brogue. The door opened wider.

‘Mrs ‘Olmes would have a fit if she caught you doing that, Mister,’ one of the children chastised, looking sternly at Sherlock. ‘It don’t do, to be messing up the path like that.’

John’s shoulders shook with laughter at the astonished look on Sherlock’s face. The little girl who’d spoken folded her arms. ‘I’d pick it up if I were you.’

‘Mary, who on earth are you--’ the woman who’d appeared behind the children cut herself off with a gasp when she caught sight of Sherlock and John, rounding on the little girl in the doorway. ‘Mary Macneil, _how dare you_!’ she exclaimed, turning back to Sherlock and John, who was still laughing.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes, I--’

‘Yes, yes, it’s quite alright, Alice,’ Sherlock said, looking past Alice at Mary as he bent to pick his discarded cigarette up.

Alice bunched her apron nervously in her hands for a second as she stepped back to allow Sherlock and John inside. 

‘John, you’ve not met Alice, introduce yourself,’ Sherlock said as he whipped his hat off, walking very slowly towards the three children who were now pressed tightly together at the foot of the stairs. He bent down and stared at them without saying a word, his unblinking eyes narrow and sharp.

Rolling his eyes, John took his hat off and smiled at Alice. ‘Doctor John Watson, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said, taking one of Alice’s hands and kissing the back of it.

Alice bent her knees in an uncertain curtsey. ‘Alice Poole,’ she said, glancing nervously at Sherlock, who was still looming over the uncertain-looking children. ‘I really am sorry about that--’

‘Please don’t apologise. Best laugh I’ve had all week,’ John said with an easy grin. ‘Am I alright to put my bag down just--’

‘Oh, let me take that,’ Alice said, grabbing the handle. ‘And your coats and hats, I’ll see to those too.’

‘That’s very kind,’ John said, resting his stick against the wall, undoing his coat. 

‘Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?’ A high, needling voice demanded from the darkened corridor off the hallway. Sherlock shot up straight as his mother walked into the hall, wearing a matching green skirt and jacket with pearls, her mostly-grey hair pinned up neatly. 

‘There are three cubes of sugar in this one’s left shoe,’ Sherlock said, pointing to a small boy in short grey trousers, with bottle-bottom glasses and skinned knees. ‘This one sneaked a pinch of Cook’s cooking sherry after lunch and I believe Mary knows the location of the missing sweet coupons.’

Sherlock smirked at Mary, who gave him a mutinous look.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Sherlock, do grow up,’ Mrs Holmes said, shaking her head at her son. ‘Children, go and play with the others until you are fetched, understood?’

‘Yes, Mrs Holmes,’ they all said quickly, running up the stairs. Mary glanced back at Sherlock and glared. He glared back.

‘Doctor Watson, it’s lovely to see you,’ Mrs Holmes said, ignoring Sherlock, going to kiss John’s cheek. ‘Thank you awfully for agreeing to come and see to the children, they simply cannot _stand_ Doctor Green in the village and in all honesty, neither can I.’ She took John’s arm and began leading him out of the hall. ‘Let’s get you some tea. Mycroft’s in the drawing room. I wasn’t expecting him to come today but it is awfully nice to see both of my boys and yourself, of course. Sherlock! Do come along!’ Mrs Holmes called over her shoulder, squeezing John’s arm. ‘Now, how have you been keeping?’

***

Tea was, of course, filled with sniping and sneering from both Sherlock and Mycroft. John and Mrs Holmes had mainly talked to each other, occasionally interrupting Mycroft and Sherlock with a ‘boys, _really_ ,’ or ‘Sherlock, don’t’ or similar. After half an hour or so, John had left everyone to it, going with Alice up to the nursery in the attic.

‘Down to the library for some silent reading, please,’ Alice ordered the five children scattered about the room. All of them groaned but did as they were told, a couple of them giving John suspicious looks as they passed.

Alice smiled warmly, dragging a wooden table out from under an eave. ‘Don’t mind them,’ she said as she grabbed a chair and placed it next to the table. ‘It’s Mr. Holmes they’ve got it in for, not you, Doctor Watson. Sit down if you’d like,’ she said, picking up a cushion from the floor, shaking it out before putting it down on the chair.

‘Oh, thank you,’ John murmured, smiling briefly as he limped over to the table, getting his things out of his bag and lining them up neatly before sitting down, using the handle of his stick to grab a nearby stool by its leg and drag it over. He rested his left foot on it to stretch his leg out, massaging the phantom pain in his thigh and knee.

‘The cold must be hell on your leg, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Alice said quietly, bending to pick up the toys the children had been playing with, her plain blue frock flying outwards each time she swooped down. The afternoon light had no warmth to it as it fell across the doll’s house and the cheerful wooden blocks and the train set.

‘It’s... it’s fine,’ John lied, shaking his head. ‘Nothing wrong with it, really.’

Alice smiled over her shoulder at him. ‘You’re so brave, Doctor Watson,’ she said softly.

Frowning, John glanced down at his lap. ‘I... I’m not, I...’

‘I think you are.’

‘Alice, do please explain to me why you think it is acceptable for you to offer an assessment of Doctor Watson’s character.’ Sherlock stepped into the nursery, imposing as ever with his hawk-like gaze and turned up nose. 

‘Mr. Holmes, I--’ Alice got to her feet quickly as Sherlock advanced. 

‘I rather think you’re getting too familiar,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

‘Sherlock--’

‘Shut up, John,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘It would serve you well, Miss Poole, to remind yourself of your _place_ ,’ he hissed, leaning intimidatingly close to Alice.

‘ _Enough_ , Sherlock,’ John growled, getting to his feet, moving unsteadily but quickly over to Sherlock and pulling him away. 

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, I never meant--’

‘Alice, it’s quite alright,’ John said as Sherlock’s lips pulled back from his teeth in an ugly sneer. ‘Sherlock, apologise.’

‘I’ve nothing to apologise for.’

‘Doctor Watson, I’m sorry, I truly am, I didn’t mean to be over-familiar, I just... I...’

‘Really Alice, it’s fine,’ John said. He dug his fingers into Sherlock’s arm. ‘ _Sherlock_.’

Snorting an angry, dragon-like breath out, Sherlock turned his head to look out of the window. ‘I apologise,’ he muttered.

John set his jaw and let go of Sherlock’s arm. ‘Send the first one up in ten minutes, would you Alice, please?’ he asked, smiling tightly at her. She flushed, nodded and hurried away, running down the stairs.

Shaking his head, John stumbled over to the door, slamming it shut. ‘Nothing makes me dislike you more than when you act like that,’ he hissed, moving awkwardly back to where Sherlock was standing. ‘I hate it when you throw your weight around, you know I hate it.’

‘You were uncomfortable,’ Sherlock retorted, frowning at John. 

‘It doesn’t... bloody hell, Sherlock, it doesn’t matter, it’s not _your_ place to...’ John trailed off and shook his head again. ‘You’re just utterly unbelievable at times.’

‘Forgive me for being concerned about you,’ Sherlock spat, striding over to stare out of one of the large windows. 

‘Don’t start this,’ John muttered, checking his equipment over again. ‘You always have to dress up the fact that you act like a child with your alleged concern and--’

‘ _Alleged_ concern?’ Sherlock roared, turning on his heel. ‘Alleged?’

‘That display just now was nothing to do with your concern for me and you know it,’ John said, his voice quiet. ‘And I’m not arguing with you here.’

‘Well, I’m arguing with you!’ Sherlock shouted, seizing hold of John’s arm. ‘Why do you find it so hard to believe that I care for you? That I...’ he sighed and dropped his voice. ‘That I love you?’

John licked his lips and pushed Sherlock back. ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ he said firmly, blinking a few times. ‘I know all of that and I don’t doubt it, not for a moment. But you simply can’t use it as an excuse for behaving like that.’

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,’ Sherlock muttered.

‘Don’t act like a child, then, Sherlock.’ John frowned, lowering himself onto the chair that Alice had pulled out for him. Sherlock stood in front of him, looking awkward for a moment before he fell to his knees and pressed the side of his face against John’s thigh. 

‘She liked you.’

John twisted his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and pulled his head away, giving him a look that clearly read _not here_. ‘I’m very likable,’ John said.

‘Oh, you know what I mean!’ Sherlock got to his feet again and threw himself into a rocking chair underneath the window a few feet away from John, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms. ‘I get so little time with you as it is--’

‘That no-one’s fault, Sherlock. It’s circumstance, and there’s no bloody use complaining about it.’ John re-rolled a length of bandage tightly, placing it back in a cream tin next to its tightly-rolled brethren. ‘At least it’s ensured you a steady supply of work.’

Sherlock grunted. There was a timid knock at the door.

‘You can either sit there and shut up or go and talk to your mother and Mycroft,’ John said, turning to look at Sherlock, pointing threateningly with his medical scissors. ‘I mean it. Not a word.’ He took hold of his stick and walked over the door, opening it and smiling at the bespectacled boy with skinned knees who’d been hiding the sugar in his shoe. ‘Hello,’ John said, smiling kindly. He bent down, hiding a grimace as he offered his hand to the boy. ‘I’m Doctor Watson.’

‘Um.’ The little boy shook John’s hand, fidgeting awkwardly. ‘I’m Frank.’

‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Frank,’ John said, picking up his stethoscope off the table. ‘Sit down on that stool for me. How did you hurt your knees?’ he asked, settling back in his chair.

‘I were chasing the chickens,’ Frank said, grinning briefly, revealing a few missing teeth. ‘And I tripped over one.’

John laughed. ‘I hope the poor chicken’s alright?’

Frank nodded. ‘I never squashed ‘im.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ John said with a laugh. ‘I just want to listen to your lungs, can you turn around for me and lift your jumper up, please?’

‘And my shirt?’

‘And your shirt.’ John put the earpieces in his ears and huffed his warm breath over the chestpiece of his stethoscope before pressing it to Frank’s back. ‘Deep breath in, now.’

Frank breathed in exaggeratedly. 

‘Good.’ John shifted the chestpiece a few inches right. ‘And again.’

***

It took John just over two hours to examine all five children. After he’d been made to make a further, more sincere apology to Alice, Sherlock refused dinner on behalf of both himself and John and by half past six they were back at Baker Street, eating fish and chips straight from the paper. 

‘Better than anything you can get at BP,’ Sherlock said, sucking the salt and vinegar off his greasy fingers. 

‘Certainly better than anything you can get in the Army,’ John said with a laugh, breaking off a piece of fish. 

They were quiet for a few minutes. Under the table, Sherlock ran the top of his foot against the back of John’s calf. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, so indistinct John nearly missed it. ‘Sorry I was horrid today.’

‘You were.’ John pressed a kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, just above his watch strap. ‘You’re forgiven.’

The downstairs clock struck quarter to seven.

‘I wish I could stay,’ Sherlock said, smoothing out the greasy sheet of yesterday’s newspaper under his chips, scanning the blurred lines of text.

‘I wish you could, too.’ John rested his hand on top of Sherlock’s and linked their fingers together. He smiled and leant forwards, pulling Sherlock into a soft kiss by the back of his neck. ‘Put your face straight, now, come on,’ he whispered, their lips brushing.

‘I want you,’ Sherlock said, kissing John again. ‘I... John, I want, I need...’

‘Anything.’ John cupped Sherlock’s face and pressed their lips together hard. ‘Anything.’

***

Moonlight fell across the bed, afterwards. For once the blackout curtains were ripped back from the window and Sherlock and John lay in the silvery light, sheets tangled around them. Both were on their sides, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin, forcing them closer together. Sherlock wrapped his arm tighter around John, closing his eyes as he brushed feather-light kisses across the back of John’s neck and down his shoulder. 

‘I don’t mean to be like I am,’ Sherlock whispered, not for the first time.

‘Sherlock--’

‘No.’ There was a crack in Sherlock’s voice. The mattress springs groaned as he forced himself closer, pushing his leg in between John’s. ‘I could hardly think of you whilst you were away,’ he said into the darkness, his breath ruffling the greying hair just behind John’s ear. ‘I was so scared, I...’

‘Shh,’ John soothed, caressing the back of Sherlock’s hand that was splayed on John’s stomach, fingers pressing in so hard the skin underneath them turned white. ‘Shh.’

‘Don’t leave,’ Sherlock said, his voice small and lost. ‘Don’t ever leave.’

John shifted onto his other side to face Sherlock, wincing at the sharp flash of pain in his shoulder. He pressed his thin lips to Sherlock’s fuller ones, coaxing them open with his tongue. He scratched gently with his fingertips at Sherlock’s scalp. They kissed for several long minutes, until they broke apart, gasping.

‘I couldn’t,’ John said, quiet and calm and steady as ever, his hand resting over where Sherlock’s heart beat under the skin of his chest. ‘I couldn’t ever leave you.’

Nodding, Sherlock shifted down the bed and rested his head on John’s stomach, wiping away the bit of John’s release they’d missed with the sheet earlier. He sighed when John’s shaking left hand threaded in his curls. ‘John,’ Sherlock murmured, eyes drifting shut.

‘Sleep,’ John whispered. ‘I’m here.’

The clock downstairs struck for quarter past the hour and somewhere far away, bombs fell.

**Author's Note:**

> Just one bit of Sherlock’s leave left now, after this one. :) The Holmes residence is based on Rudyard Kipling's home, [Bateman's](http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/batemans/), in Sussex. The title is from [Back in Your Own Backyard](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XK4IolUK84o) by Vera Lynn.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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